


My True Love Gave To Me

by peachpety



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2020, Christmas Fluff, Christmas at Hogwarts, Early Bird 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2020, Ghost Professor Binns, Grumpy Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Professors, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Prince Quilliam the Hedgehog, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Vulgar Christmas Jumper, Wandless Magic (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety
Summary: Christmas at Hogwarts; a time to celebrate the season with (appropriately reserved) holiday cheer and (tastefully applied) festive trappings. A time Professor Draco Malfoy would rathernotshare with a scruffy, bespectacled Care of Magical Creatures Professor, thanks ever so.So of course, he's tasked to team up with the git to decorate Hogwarts' 12 Christmas trees.Draco isn't sure he will survive the plethora of marshmallow-topped hot cocoas, tinsel garlands, and iced gingerbread biscuits, but with the help of one precocious hedgehog he just might find his Christmas spirit hidden in sparkling green eyes and wrapped in an unfortunate Christmas jumper.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 145
Kudos: 52
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2020





	1. A Hedgehog with a Pedigree

**Author's Note:**

> Merry merry, y'all. That's our saying around here at this time of year, and one I am happy to share with you, dear readers! 
> 
> Here is my 25 days of Harry and Draco 2020. Take note this is a WIP with a definite end in sight...but it'll get there when it gets there, so please be patient with me. I respond well to love and praise, just sayin' ;)
> 
> Also note, the chapters switch POV, with the main chapter Draco POV and the next half-chapter a true drabble in Harry's POV.
> 
> I could not have made it thus far without the help of some wonderful, sweet souls that I am blessed to have in my corner: shealwaysreads & toluene, keeping me honest with the brilliant beta work, y'all are fiercely talented and your ability to see the forest and not the trees is humbling, and the bestest cheerleaders a gal could ever have: Lynn, Ladderofyears, VeelaWings and Bluefay. BIG LOVE TO YOU ALL!
> 
> Enjoy! And merry merry! xoxo peach

The brass peacock adorning the clock on the desk squawks nine o’clock. 

Draco, surprised by the late hour, savagely strikes through an entire paragraph with red ink and adds the last parchment to a stack of essays—all abysmal, to be sure—submitted by his Fifth Year students. Students who, thanks to his brilliant tutelage, should know the level of excellence he expects. Obviously, quite a bit _more_ instruction will be required, but Draco is confident he will have them up to snuff by the Easter hols. 

He makes a note to assign additional inches of parchment tomorrow. 

Draco straightens his desk, tapping his wand to align essays with the desk’s edge and the quills with the parchment. He sends his tea service to the Hogwarts kitchens and with a wand flick extinguishes the wall torches, plunging the room into blue-black darkness. Clumps of snow falling outside the window throw shadows over the moonlit desk and dot the sliver of pale light slashing Snape’s portrait hanging on the opposite wall. 

Snape snores gently, slumped in his chair having exhausted himself earlier lamenting that his view of the Forbidden Forest had been intentionally obscured by smoke curling from the chimney of Hagrid’s hut. And while a _completely_ valid point, it was a tirade the likes of which Draco hasn’t witnessed since the hiring four months ago of the wild-haired, bespectacled, _annoying_ Care of Magical Creatures Professor now residing in said hut.

The office door swings shut behind Draco as he exits the room, and he frowns. An evergreen wreath adorned with a gauche red satin bow has been attached to the outside of his door. A wand swish seals his office to his magical signature and a satisfying backslash Vanishes the wreath. _Again._

“I say, you there!” Professor Binns’ ghostly head emerges from the stone wall opposite Draco’s office. “I do declare,” he says, floating free and circling Draco with a frown, “the students are getting taller each year, you’re practically a man! What are you doing in my office anyway?”

Draco smirks. “Nicking the answers to the history exam, of course.” 

Binns sputters through his moustache. “Now, see here you rogue—”

“I prefer _rapscallion_ _,”_ Draco says, a lift to his chin. 

Binns shimmers with indignation. “Twenty points from Slytherin for cheating! And stealing my wreath!”

“The wreath was an abomination.” Draco waves a dismissive hand. “And I haven’t cheated, Professor. _I wrote the bloody exam._ ” He rolls his eyes and sends the red tinsel garlands swagged over the paintings lining the corridor slithering off into the shadows. 

He can still hear Binns huffing and puffing as he exits the History of Magic corridor.

* * *

If asked, Draco would say that he prefers Hogwarts unadorned, un-decorated, un-garnished.

Not that he spends time making small talk with the other Professors, if he can help it. But _should_ he engage in social discourse he would magnanimously provide sage advice, offering the three words surfacing in his mind as he makes his way through hallways decidedly adorned, decorated and garnished.

 _Less is more._

Draco rounds a corner and catches a group of Seventh Year boys loitering in the cloister surrounding the courtyard now blanketed with snow. At this time of night, the younger students are already tucked away in their dormitories, but the older students take advantage of the extended curfew afforded by the privilege of age. 

The boys catch sight of Draco too late and snap to attention, snuffing out contraband Muggle smokes and straightening ties, both red and green. Draco Vanishes more tinsel garlands dangling from the rafters—Merlin, the bloody stuff is _everywhere_ —as he sweeps past the boys.

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” he says smugly, summoning the cigarettes and tucking them away into his pocket.

A muttered _fuck_ has the corner of Draco’s lips curling as he passes through another doorway.

The chance encounter puts a spring in his step and he practically skips down a long corridor lined with suits of armour charmed to sing Christmas carols. He silences each one with a dramatic flourish of his wand. Peeves rockets out of the last, upending the armour with a clang, mouth open in a silent yell, barrelling off and knocking down another group of students.

Without breaking stride, he descends a set of stairs. The tinsel garland wrapped around the bannisters disappears with each step of his brogues on the stones. He pauses and affects a casual lean while the staircase conveys him across the space to the opposite vestibule. With an arching overhead sweep of Draco’s wand, a cluster of enormous, disgustingly-bright baubles hovering near the ceiling implode into oblivion with a loud pop. A startled cry from a small party of gentlewizards in a nearby winter landscape brings a smile to his lips. 

Contrary to popular belief and current behaviour aside, Draco enjoys Christmas. Some of his fondest early childhood memories are set against the backdrop of one of many tastefully decorated, towering Nordmann Firs felled in Malfoy Manor’s South Woods. 

Keyword: _tastefully._

Draco is still smiling as he passes through an arched doorway marking the entrance to the newly constructed wing housing the Professor's living quarters, his magic rippling as he passes through the admittance veil. A few steps through the short entrance hall and Draco arrives at a large circular foyer lined with doors. A round marble-topped table with ornately carved legs—lion, snake, badger, raven—sits in the center of the room.

And atop it sits a ridiculous life-size nutcracker figure.

His smile fades.

“Good evening, Professor Malfoy,” the nutcracker intones, his wooden teeth clacking distastefully. “Would you care to hear a Christmas carol—”

Draco suppresses a shudder and swipes his wand. Instantly, the nutcracker transfigures to a large arrangement of white calla lilies anchored in red berries filling a Waterford crystal vase. He inhales the sweet fragrance, his shoulder blades relaxing down his back only to clench up at the sound of jangling bells.

He points his wand at a swag of oversized silver bells hanging from a candy-cane striped bow on one of the doors, itching to banish them _yet again_ but he’s already pushing his luck with the nutcracker. A Silencing Spell will have to do.

The door to the left opens before he can freeze the tiny sugarplum fairies buzzing and humming around a poinsettia wreath. 

“Evening, Malfoy!” Neville says jovially, emerging from his quarters. He’s wearing an absurd fuzzy Santa hat.

Draco hides his wand behind his back. “Longbottom.”

Neville motions to the flowers. “What happened to the nutcracker? I was teaching him _The Twelve Days of Christmas_. He was up to day five.”

“You do realize that this table is a Chippendale.”

Neville blinks blankly, the dolt.

Draco grits his teeth. “This gorgeous antique was crafted by the legendary Ravenclaw, Thomas Chippendale. It should not suffer the indignity of supporting a singing nutcracker.”

Neville shakes his head, the bell in the pom tip of his hat jingling. He shrugs. “Well, the calla lilies are lovely, too. Maybe I can teach them to sing as well!” He ignores Draco’s blanched face, attention captured by the silent bells on the adjacent door. “Ah, look! I think Wilson’s bells must have a glitch. This is the third time this week they’ve gone silent.” He sets them to rights and smiles at Draco brightly. “I’m off to choir practice. Care to join?”

Draco bares his teeth in what he hopes is an approximation of a smile. “No, that’s quite alright.”

Neville laughs. “Well, you’ll get an earful at the Christmas feast besides!”

“Brilliant,” Draco says flatly. He makes a mental note to later weigh the pros of Hogwarts’ Christmas figgy pudding against the cons of a Longbottom serenade to decide whether he’ll skip the Feast altogether.

Neville lopes away, humming to himself. Draco waits until Longbottom exits through the archway and once again silences the infernal bells before opening his own barren door. Inside, copper lanterns ignite and flames leap to life in the black marble fireplace, illuminating the sleek, modern interior, one of the last Hogwarts bastions still blissfully free from garish holiday trappings.

Draco sends his robes to hang on the coat hook, pausing only for a moment in the small kitchenette. On the black granite island, like a pimple on the smooth surface, house-elves have set a silver tray of iced Christmas biscuits.

Draco wrinkles his nose and Vanishes the lot.

He enters his study, reveling in the comfort of neatly aligned books and charcoal leather, magical photographs the only color on the shelves. His mother smiles at him serenely from one black frame, and Pansy flips him two fingers while Blaise laughs from another. A quick glance at the Spinner’s End painting beside the secretary informs him that Snape, thankfully, still slumbers in his office. He pours himself two fingers of Scottish whisky from a mirrored bar cart, and heads to his bedchambers.

He’s undressing when he hears it—a muffled squeaking. 

Cautiously, he spells open his bureau drawer. Nestled amongst his cashmere, making itself an untidy little nest, is a small hedgehog. Snowflakes still cling to its quills, quivering with excited snuffles and snagging on dampened wool.

Draco clicks his tongue and pulls on a jumper, summoning his Burberry coat and punching his arms into the sleeves. He levitates the rodent, cashmere nest and all, out of the drawer. Beady eyes gaze up at him, and a black nose twitches. He glowers. 

_“Potter,”_ he growls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Chapter 1 1/2

Harry tips the whistling kettle with a trail of magic. 

Steaming water pours into the waiting mug, filling the room with the scent of apples and cloves. A cinnamon stick stirs while the whisky bottle deposits a generous slug of spirits and then adds another—Harry’s reward after his first class with the Blast-Ended Skrewts today. 

He makes a mental note to amend his curriculum for next year and replace the Skrewts with something a tad less _explosive_. 

A unicorn, perhaps. 

Or a hedgehog. 

He sips hot cider and peers into a suspiciously silent cage. He frowns. 

The cage is empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. Two Humping Stags

Ice crystals glint in the moonlight and snow crunches underfoot as Draco follows the well-worn path to Hagrid’s hut. The uneven dirt ruts have been demarcated by slate paving stones surrounded by springy moss and crusty lichens dusted with snow, yet magically preserved from the frost. Beside him the hedgehog bobs along at shoulder level, encased in a warm bubble, grunting and rooting around in his cashmere nest. 

The trek from the east side of the castle is pleasant enough in the spring but now cold air whips around the greenhouses, stirring up loose snowflakes. Twice Draco had to Accio the hedgehog sent spinning aloft by a sudden gust. 

Occasional cold tendrils sneak through Draco’s warming charm—not his strong suit, magically speaking—to bite at his ankles and wrists.

“Fuck,” Draco grumbles. He shores up his protective barrier as best he can with several violent wand swishes. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit!” 

The hedgehog squeaks in agreement.

“I could be ensconced in my flannel sheets, if it wasn’t for you,” Draco says, giving the hedgehog a little prod with his wand, “with a good book and a brandy, not traipsing through knee-high snow drifts—”

The hedgehog grunts.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Fine. _Ankle_ -high, but it’s still cold as bloody fuck!” 

The path curves a wide berth around the Whomping Willow. Fairy lights glow beneath snow mounded on branches, a sharp contrast to the inky Forbidden Forest looming behind it. Hagrid’s hut lies ahead, although, to be accurate, the hut is no longer Hagrid’s. It’s Potter’s. Because _of course_ Harry Potter would have a fucking _house_ on the grounds. 

Granted, it’s a _hut_ , but still.

“Too good to live in the Professors’ wing like the rest of us,” Draco grouses. 

He stomps up the three steps, sliding a bit on stones slick with ice. A fresh garland decorated with dirigible plums surrounds the rugged oak door, as big and infuriating as it had been in Draco’s first year. He raps the door with knuckles pink with cold, shivering as his magical warming bubble wanes. He buries his chin and nose deeper into his Slytherin scarf and frowns down at a plastic Santa Claus sat on the top step. A swift kick sends it toppling into the hedge. 

The door opens, and Harry leans a raised arm against the door jamb, hair a tousled mess backlit by the warm glow of the interior. “Hi.” He smiles, all annoying white teeth and dimples. 

Draco’s frown deepens.

Harry is barefoot, the heathen, wearing worn Muggle jeans with holes at the knees and a wretched, eyestrain-red Christmas jumper adorned with—Draco can hardly bring himself to _think of it_ —two humping stags.

“You want to come in?” Harry asks.

“This is not a social visit.” Draco levitates the wad of wool to Harry. “Your rodent has invaded my chambers.” 

A spiky head pokes out from the soft fibers, black nose snuffling. 

Recognition ignites the gold flecks of Harry’s eyes. “Prince Quilliam,” he exclaims. “There you are!” He cuddles the obnoxious thing to his chest, cooing proudly, as if trespassing is something to celebrate.

Draco huffs and his breath swirls, an opaque fog. “Yes, well, royalty or no, kindly keep your prickly pet out of my cashmere!”

“Aw, but it’s so soft.” Harry nuzzles his cheek against the jumper. The deep green colour perfectly matches his eyes. “You know, I think I like prickly things in cashmere.” 

“Well, I _don’t_ like traipsing through _hip-deep_ snow to your hovel!”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Hip-deep, eh? Next time send me an owl and I’ll suffer the drifts to fetch him.” He gives Draco an imploring look. “Are you sure you won’t come in? Some hot cider should warm you up nicely.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ve got whis-keey,” he sing-songs. Prince Quilliam snorts encouragingly. 

Draco sniffs. “I said this wasn’t a social visit.”

Harry nods, resigned, and waves his hand. Magic, effervescent and spicy, engulfs Draco, hugging him like a warm blanket, tingling his extremities and leaving a sweet taste on the back of his tongue.

Draco blinks. “Wha—?” 

“To keep you warm on your Nordic expedition back to the castle,” Harry says, with a cheeky wink.

“Did you… _non-verbal!?_ You can’t just…” Draco sputters and flutters his hands. “ _Accost_ people with your wandless magic!”

Harry’s grin widens. 

“Your jumper is vulgar,” Draco announces. “This is a school for _children_ , for fuck’s sake.” In his haste to turn away, he slides off the top step. His feet hit the ground hard and he yelps. 

“All right there?” Harry sniggers. 

“The ice on your steps is a hazard!” Draco adjusts his coat and with his head held high, begins to follow his footprints away from Potter’s hut.

“Wait!” Harry calls. “Your jumper…?”

“Keep it!” Draco tosses over his shoulder. As if he could ever wear the befouled thing again!

Harry’s amused voice chases Draco on a cold breeze. “Staff meeting tomorrow, don’t forget!”

Potter’s _rude_ warming charm—honestly, the _presumption_ —remains intact through the entirety of Draco’s walk back to the castle. He passes the Whomping Willow with nary a frost-bitten fingertip. The gusts whipping around the greenhouses ruffle his hair and send him stumbling, but he remains unaffected by the cold. 

The toastiness lingers until the door to his chambers clicks shut behind him.

Draco’s not sure what peeves him more, the strength of Potter's charm or the tingling in his hands that remains well after the magic dissipates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. Chapter 2 1/2

Harry leans against the door jamb and admires Draco’s lean figure as he stalks back to the castle. Hogwarts rises in the distance ahead, blanketed in snow, the mullioned windows lit up like children’s eyes on Christmas morning.

A kernel of warmth nestles in Harry’s chest. Christmas at Hogwarts! Bright tinsel garlands and gingerbread! He can’t wait to meet Neville’s singing nutcracker.

His gaze falls to Draco stumbling past the greenhouses, hair fluttering in a gust of wind.

“This will be the best Christmas yet,” he says, jostling the hedgehog in his arms.

The hedgehog purrs from his cashmere nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 


	5. Three Cocoa Mugs

Draco is pouring his third cup of tea—his mid-morning class with the Second Years merits three cups at least—when McGonagall enters the staff room for the weekly morning meeting.

“I’ve an announcement,” she says. The jaunty feather in her pointy hat quivers as she waits for the drone of dull conversations to quiet. 

Draco delivers two lumps of sugar to his cup and gives her his full attention. While never one of his favourite professors, Minerva McGonagall has proven to be an acceptable Headmistress and, he’s loathe to admit, a personal ally. She was quick to offer him a teaching position without question five years ago at a time when no witch or wizard would even entertain an owl delivering his CV, let alone a live interview. 

McGonagall clasps her hands behind her back. “I’ve just had an owl from Professor Longbottom—”

From the squishy armchair near the hearth, Potter snores on a loud inbreath. McGonagall nudges his elbow off the chair arm with a well-aimed hex. Harry’s head jerks forward, and he jolts awake with a loud snort, glasses askew. Draco sniggers into his tea.

McGonagall clears her throat. “As I was saying, the Christmas trees will be arriving today!”

The staff erupt with cheers and exclamations of joy. Draco sips his tea to mask the sneer curling his lips. Another of his favourite Christmas traditions to befoul with tacky decorations. He shudders at the memory of the Singing Gnome Debacle last year.

“Wicked!” Harry exclaims, sitting up eagerly and righting his glasses.

The Divination transplant from America turns a bright smile to Potter. “Oh Harry,” she exclaims. “The Hogwarts trees the last several years have rivalled even the shop window displays in New York City!”

“Quite gorgeous!” Wilson says eying Harry, his voice as oily as the potion slicking his hair back from his broad forehead.

“Oh, remember the wee Gnomes?” The Muggle Studies Professor, what’s-her-name, coos.

“Gnomes?” Harry scratches his stubbly chin. “As in… garden gnomes?” 

The women sigh dreamily. “They were precious,” the Crystal Ball Woman says, “with their tiny Santa suits—”

“And stench,” Draco mutters, wrinkling his nose. Harry chuckles, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Yes, the trees were lovely,” McGonagall says. “Quite lovely indeed. However _this year,”_ she gestures to Harry practically bouncing in his seat like a mongrel crup, “Professor Potter has requested to take over the tannenbaum trimming!” 

Applause erupts again. Draco sighs heavily, resigned to another Christmas debacle, Part Two, because how could the decorated evergreens be anything other than disorderly and disheveled, if they are to be trimmed by someone with a mop of hair like that?

McGonagall raises her hands for silence. “And to assist him—”

Wilson leaps out of his chair. “Oh, I’m more than available and at Potter’s service!”

Draco snorts, and Harry coughs into his fist, blushing. 

“While I appreciate your enthusiasm,” McGonagall says, a lofty arch to her brow, “I’ve already elected Professor Malfoy to assist.”

Draco stills, his teacup halfway to his mouth. “Pardon?”

“You’re to be my assistant,” Harry says, beaming like a toothy buffoon.

Draco’s stomach lurches, and the teaspoon leaps off his saucer, clattering onto the table. _“Pardon?”_

McGonagall’s lips perk up at the corners. “In the spirit of the season and to encourage House unity, I trust that you _both_ will work together as a _team.”_

Draco opens his mouth. His protest stalls on his lips at McGonagall’s stern gaze leveled at him over the top of her spectacles, as if channeling Dumbledore’s spirit. “I only caution you about the tinsel,” she says, sharply. “Apparently, it vanishes quite readily.”

Draco presses his lips together and nods curtly.

McGonagall lifts her chin, pleased. “Next order of business,” she turns to Wilson. “Professor, we are in need of your expertise to solve the mystery of a disappearing nutcracker…”

* * *

Draco exits the staff room hastily, dodging Potter’s imploring glances from his armchair where he had been trapped by Wilson and the women. 

Students scurry out of his way as he traverses the hallways, his scowl deepening with each step. The very _idea_ that he must engage in _decorating_ like a house elf! And with _Potter!_ He Silences the caroling suits of armour with magic explosive enough to rattle the helmets. Garlands shrivel and recoil in the rafters.

He enters the History of Magic corridor and draws up short, startled by a figure with wild hair and sloppy jeans loitering outside his office chatting amicably with Professor Binns’ ghost. 

Draco’s eyes narrow as he cautiously approaches. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“Hi,” Harry grins. He loosely gestures down the hallway. “There’s a shortcut behind that tapestry.” He’s trained his wand at Draco’s door. Sparkly tinsel snakes from the wand tip and attaches itself to the door frame. The vibrant red matches the bow on the wreath that’s hanging there _again._

“That’s more festive,” Binns says, his blue glow pulsing jovially. “Ten points to Gryffindor!” He shakes a translucent finger at Draco. “And there’s an _extra_ layer of protection to keep _you_ from Vanishing it, you-you _ratscallop._ ” He dives through a painting on the opposite wall.

Harry’s eyebrows climb up to disappear beneath his curly fringe.

“Rapscallion,” Draco mutters. He frowns at the decorations. “Of course, the tinsel is _your_ doing.” He shakes his head. “I should have known.”

“It’s so awful it’s brilliant, yeah?” Harry adjusts the strand, tugging the loose ends straight. “I discovered it in a Muggle shop on my search for chocolate coins.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Chocolate is my favourite.”

“I didn’t inquire,” Draco says.

Harry shoves his wand into the waistband of his jeans and slides his hands into his front pockets. “I thought we could discuss the Christmas trees, seeing as we are to be _a team._ I’ve loads of ideas."

“I’ve class in fifteen minutes, Potter. Some of us actually _prepare_ instructions for our students. _”_ Draco opens his door with a wand tap and marches inside, igniting the torches. He draws up short again. Two mugs of hot cocoa sit dripping all over his desk.

From his portrait, Snape announces, “The house-elves just delivered those monstrosities.”

And monstrosities they truly are. The enormous awful things—the cup itself was large enough to bathe in—are topped with a mountain of whipped cream and gooey marshmallows dotted with sprinkles in Christmas colors and nonpareils shaped like gingerbreads. The cloying scent nearly overpowers the woody outdoorsy musk of the man inviting himself into Draco’s office. 

“I thought a sweet treat would be nice,” Harry says, Summoning a cup and holding it aloft to Snape. A few marshmallows topple onto the floor. “Cheers, Headmaster.” 

_“Potter,”_ Snape snarls. “Leaving chaos in your wake, per usual.”

Harry smiles and sips his drink, smacking his lips slick with whipped cream. Snape tuts.

“I’ve a class—” Draco begins, watching Harry lower himself into the visitor’s chair, “—and don’t sit down!”

“You’ve said.” Harry glances around the room. “You’ve a nice office,” he observes. “It’s lacking Christmas cheer though.” 

Before Draco can protest, Harry points his finger at Snape’s portrait. Spicy magic fills the room, curling around Draco and tingling his skin. A thick spruce garland peppered with little garden gnome ornaments pops into existence, completely covering Snape’s ornate gilt frame.

Snape releases a rather undignified noise from his throat and disappears in a flurry of billowing robes.

“Prince Quilliam makes that sound when I put him in his cage.” Harry laughs. A dollop of whipped cream smudges his left dimple. “Where does he even go?”

“A painting in my private study.” Draco Conjures a napkin and throws it. The napkin bounces off Harry’s face and lands in his lap. 

Harry blinks. “Does he really?”

“Yes, and I’m sure to get quite an earful when I retire later, so thanks ever so.” Draco grimaces and collects parchment and quills from his desk top, hands still tingling with Harry’s residual magic. “So now that you’ve insulted my painting, ruined my desk, and trashed my office with your Christmas magic, will you kindly get out?”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Harry stands. ”But we _will_ talk later about the trees,” he promises. He spares a glance out the window. “You know, you can see my house from here.” He swipes his finger through the whipped cream in his cup and delivers it to his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucks, the smile in his eyes evident as he leaves.

Draco Vanishes the cocoa and the spruce, fingertips buzzing. 

The heat flooding his cheeks he attributes to that decidedly unwise third cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	6. Chapter 3 1/2

Harry tickles the pear and the large painting swings open to allow him entrance to the Hogwarts kitchens. 

The warm glow from the fires engulfs him and he breathes in delicious Christmas scents—brown sugar and cinnamon and clove. House-elves, clothed and employed by choice, bow low, noses scraping the stone floor. 

Kreacher greets him from a worn butcher-block island.

“Master Potter,” he croaks, wiping his hands on a frilly apron that says _Official Cookie Taster_. “A batch of gingerbread biscuits just came from the oven.”

“Brilliant,” Harry grins. He Scourgifies his hands and picks up a tube of white icing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 


	7. Four Strands of Lights

The first evening star winks in the twilight ombré sky, bright enough to shine through the smoke curling from Potter’s chimney. 

Draco sits at his desk grading essays—a teacher’s bane—and ignoring the sight of Potter outside adding fairy lights to the soffits of his hut. In a red buffalo _plaid jacket_ , no less. And even though he could see Potter’s damn hovel from his window, as had been so _obviously_ pointed out, he has ignored Potter all day.

Draco didn’t notice Potter faffing about outside with his First Years and a Niffler while he ate a quick lunch at his desk between classes. 

Draco didn’t notice Potter levitating a Fraser Fir into his house while he met with students during his office hours. 

He also didn’t notice that the fairy lights were bright and multi-colored. 

Draco reads his student’s essay for the third time. 

And it’s not because he’s _distracted_. It’s that the essays are so supremely boring. And with Snape absent from his portrait all day, Draco’s been denied the fun of regaling him with poorly-written sentences. 

Potter’s hut sparkles in the snow, and Draco couldn’t care less about fairy lights, honestly. 

And stubborn red tinsel that refuses to budge from his door frame. 

And whipped cream delivered to lips on a fingertip.

The peacock clock announces half past five. Draco slumps back in his chair. The stack of parchments awaiting his review seems thicker than when he started. He notices that he’s absently doodled the word _Potter_ on the margin of the topmost parchment. His back stiffens and in his haste to erase the ink, he Vanishes an entire paragraph. Unfortunate, but sadly, an improvement.

He decides that the grading can wait until the morning. 

A wand tap aligns parchment with the desk’s edge and quills with the parchment. He extinguishes the wall torches and the room descends into the cool blue of early evening. In the darkening sky, another star has joined the first, their technicolor shimmers mirroring the fairy lights bathing Snape’s empty portrait in a colorful glow. 

Draco exits his office and as the door shuts he turns abruptly, pointing his wand at the decorations. 

_“Incendio!”_ he cries.

Flames shoot from his wand tip, roaring and clawing and after several moments, the fire dies out and the smoke clears. The garland and wreath remain unscorched, unscathed, and perfectly awful. He flails his wand, attacking with every possible fiery spell in his arsenal—Fire Rope, Inflamare, and another Incendio for good measure. He comes _this close_ to casting Fiendfyre. 

The decorations withstand.

Binns cackles from a nearby painting.

An _Aguamenti_ muttered at the end of a sigh extinguishes a small blue flame sputtering at the hem of Draco’s robes. A flick of the wrist changes the color of the tinsel and the wreath’s bow. If he’s to suffer these infernal decorations they may as well be Slytherin green. 

He can still hear Binns laughing as he exits the corridor.

* * *

At this early hour, students crowd the hallways on their way to the Great Hall for supper, chattering about Christmas trees and giggling about Professor Potter’s Niffler. Rather than heading directly for his rooms, Draco detours through a winding passageway. Before he reaches the large staircase leading down to the castle’s main entryway, he can already see the tops of the Christmas trees towering above the railing.

Draco pauses on the landing. Twelve enormous evergreens in a variety of species—Fraser and Noble Firs, Lodgepole Pines, and Blue Spruce—fill the area with an evergreen scent. And in the midst, towering above all, stands the largest Nordmann Fir Draco’s ever seen, larger even than any Manor tree he can remember. 

It’s quite possibly perfect. 

“Just right, aren’t they?” Wilson asks, leaning on the railing next to Draco. “Neville did brilliantly and I can’t _wait_ to see what Harry has planned for decorations.”

“ _We_ have loads planned,” Draco lifts his chin, “and it’s brilliant.”

Wilson huffs, the corners of his mouth turning down as he takes a loud, obnoxious sip from a large cup of cocoa piled with whipped cream and marshmallows. Sprinkles and gingerbread nonpareils fall off and litter the floor.

Draco lifts an eyebrow.

“I see you coveting my treat!” Wilson’s squinty eyes glint darkly. “Isn’t it luscious? _Harry_ ordered it for me from the kitchens. I was telling him how much I _adored_ sweet treats and I walked into my office, and _poof!_ This arrived!” He leers. A nonpareil is lodged in his crooked canine.

“Yes, Potter deposited one on my desk as well,” Draco smirks. He turns his back on Wilson pouting into his cocoa— _Harry’s_ cocoa—and heads toward the Professor’s wing _not_ thinking about Potter or his disgusting treat that he doles out so freely. 

Outside, snow falls in the courtyard, piling against the castle walls like peaks of whipped cream. A gang of Seventh Year boys dodge snowballs, round and fat like big marshmallows, lobbed by Peeves hiding in the bushes. Draco sends a wedge of snow from the low overhanging roof to topple down onto Peeves’ head. The boys whoop and laugh and then themselves are buried. 

The suits of armour snap to attention and silence their singing as he walks past, the last notes of their song echoing in the rafters. He hops the gap onto the staircase already on the move and points his wand. The baubles at the ceiling, rather than disappearing into oblivion, transform into large marshmallows. The gentlewizards in the winter landscape guffaw and point. Draco’s ears warm, and he taps his wand against the railing. Red sparks shoot out the end. 

In the Professor's foyer, Longbottom stands at the Chippendale table with his wand trained at the calla lilies. The flowers sway back and forth, humming off-key with the ringing of the bells on Wilson’s door.

“Evening, Malfoy!” Neville says happily. He’s wearing an absurd Nordic sweater knitted with evergreen trees. One of the flowers shudders and emits a high pitched shriek. Neville squints one eye shut against the noise. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says. “They do get over-enthusiastic.” 

Draco grimaces in response.

“Did you see the trees?” Neville asks. “We found the Nordmann Fir quite by accident getting lost in the woods near Wiltshire.”

Draco stills, eyes narrowing, a niggling warmth squiggling at the base of his spine. “ _We_ found the Fir?”

Neville’s eyes bulge. “Er…” 

“Potter,” Draco grits out through clenched teeth, red sparks cascading out of his wand tip. His ears burn anew, and he darts a glance to Neville. Neville averts his gaze and waves his wand. The lilies open their petals wide and begin screeching.

Draco yells above the racket, _“You were with Potter poking about in Wiltshire!?”_

_“What?”_ Neville points to his ear and shakes his head, waving his wand. The flowers’ volume increases. _“I can’t hear you!”_

A guttural cry escapes Draco’s mouth, and he stomps away, throwing open the door to his chambers.

 _“Have fun decorating with Harry!”_ Neville calls out over the din as the door swings closed. Draco shoots a quick current of magic to silence Wilson’s bells through the closing gap. 

In a flurry of red sparks, the bells transform into quiet marshmallows .

* * *

Draco bypasses the coat hook and enters his study fully-robed, the bar cart his destination. He splashes whisky into a glass over a chunk of Conjured ice and tosses it back. He pours another.

Snape sniffs from the Spinner’s End painting. “The last time you imbibed in such a manner was when the Care of Magical Creatures post was filled.”

“I’ve had a trying day.”

“Not surprising. _That boy_ is a menace.”

Draco consumes the whisky in one swallow. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” Snapes says smoothly, face expressionless. “The ice cube in your drink is a marshmallow.”

A garbled noise vibrates in Draco’s throat, and his eye twitches. He carefully and with deliberate calm sets the glass down on the tray. 

“Accidental magic is no accident, really.” Snape settles himself into his painted armchair and arranges his robes. “It is fueled by powerful emotion.”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. The weight of a headache pushes on the back of his eyeballs. “I’ve had an exhausting day is all.”

“Yes, a preoccupied mind is fatiguing.”

“I am not preoccupied!” Draco snaps. “I couldn’t care less about that flannel-wearing cocoa-doling git.” 

“I see,” Snape brushes away invisible lint on his knee. “On an unrelated note, I must have a word with Minerva about the new Hogwarts robes. Plaid is very uncouth.”

Draco glances down at his robes now vibrant in red and black buffalo checks. His vision blurs and he rips off the garment, teeth gnashing. He balls the fabric into a fist and ignores Snape’s lifted brow as he hastily exits the study. 

“Pleasant dreams, Draco,” Snape calls out.

Draco skirts the island in the kitchenette, gaze sliding over the silver tray of iced gingerbread biscuits. He draws up short, snapping his attention back to the countertop. The biscuits are shaped like garden gnomes with red pointy hats and big golden Santa buckles cinched around fat stomachs. 

And beside the tray sits a familiar cup of hot cocoa towering with the usual mountain of sticky mess. As he stands there, a few gingerbread shaped nonpareils fall onto the slick granite.

Draco’s eye twitches again.

He snatches a biscuit and savagely bites off the gnome’s head. Fleetingly, he acknowledges that the taste of cinnamon and clove blend perfectly and the icing adds a delicate touch of sweetness. He growls around the bite and Vanishes everything, tray, delicious biscuits and all, and _especially_ the cocoa.

The bathroom is a welcome retreat, all soothing pale marble and pristine white enamels. He tosses the robes aside, kicking them into a plaid pile in the corner. Not risking the use of magic, he sets the water flowing manually—with the day he’s endured, Merlin knows what would come gushing out—and adds a generous dollop of pearly bubble bath. The room fills with a lavender scent, and the riotous water flowing into the tub and frothing the bubbles offers a welcome distraction. 

“This is exactly what I need,” Draco says, inhaling deeply. “A long soak to leech this day and that _lumberjack ruffian_ out of my mind.”

He opens the cupboard and is met with a small black nose twitching at him from between his fluffy Egyptian cotton towels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. Chapter 4 1/2

Harry tosses galleons into the snow, and the First Years squeal as the Niffler pounces. He feels the weight of a gaze and glances up at Hogwarts’ windows, spying pale hair.

He smiles.

After his last class, Harry inspects Neville’s Christmas trees, claiming the small one Neville selected for his hut. Eyes he knows are pale grey watch him carry the tree into his house.

He grins.

With the last fairy light hung, Harry dons his flannel jacket and sets out for the Whomping Willow. A herd of brightly-lit spheres—the biggest as tall as him—trail him through the falling snowflakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	9. Five Rainbow Trees

Draco rounds the greenhouses, cursing as cold air blasts through his warming charm and snowflakes pelt his face. Trails of sugar-fine snow swirl over the paving stones and around his ankles in sinuous loops, like a dragon chasing its tail, to be carried over ever-growing drifts flanking the preserved pathway. 

In Draco’s arms, the hedgehog grunts in displeasure and burrows into the fluffy folds of the towel.

“It’s your own bloody fault for escaping!” Draco admonishes, poking the towel with his wand and muttering an incantation. The hedgehog snuggles deeper into the warmth, purring with contentment. 

“Happy, are you?” Draco sneers. “I could be sipping Prosecco whilst soaking in a toasty lavender bath until my fingers prune, and not trekking out through this _blizzard_ —”

The hedgehog chirps. 

“Ugh, fine, this _squall_ ,” Draco sputters and squeezes his eyes closed against an onslaught of stinging snowflakes. “But it’s still cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey!” 

He pauses mid-reinforcement of his protective bubble, such as it is, and stares at the colorful scene on the sloping lawn before him.

Up ahead, the Whomping Willow sways proudly against the dark backdrop of the forest, its undulating branches crusted with lights that paint the snow with rainbow colors. Scattered at the tree’s base and trailing away to trace the path to Potter’s Hut are a dozen spheres composed entirely of lights. 

“What in Merlin’s name…?”

Draco approaches cautiously, entranced in spite of his trepidation. Each ball, some reaching as tall as his height, emits an enchanting glow that affords protection from the biting wind and fills Draco with an unsettling contentment. Familiar spicy magic entices him to reach out and brush tingling fingertips over the warm lights as he slowly passes each one. 

Tucked into the towel at the crook of Draco’s elbow, the hedgehog emits a happy little whistle. Draco jostles him with a scoff. “These things are not _at all_ intriguing.” He clears the wistfulness out of his voice and stomps out of the protective glow of the last sphere.

A bracing gust sends him stumbling in a flurry of yelps and alarmed hedgehog squeaks over the last paving stones leading to the icy steps of Potter’s Hut. Draco takes advantage of the forward momentum and jumps the steps, noticing too late the black ice on the landing. He slips, cursing, and flails into the evergreen garland framing the door, dislodging several dirigible plums that shimmer and gleam, their slick skins reflecting the blues, greens, reds and golds of the draping fairy lights. The plastic Santa Claus topples into the hedge.

“Fucking hazard—” Draco grumbles, righting himself and pounding on the door, “— _come out, Potter,_ I nearly broke my bloody neck!”

A grunt draws Draco’s attention to the filthy face of a garden gnome peeking out from between the plums in the garland. Because _of course_ Potter would be lax in his de-gnoming practices.

The hedgehog huffs an aggressive snort. The garden gnome blows a rather rude raspberry, spraying spittle over Draco’s shoes. A flourish of Draco’s wand sends the gnome catapulting off into the forest. He’s watching it bounce off a tree trunk with a satisfying thud when another gnome charges and kicks his ankles with horny feet. This gnome joins the first, and it’s so much fun Draco sends the plastic Santa sailing off into the distance as well.

“Having fun, are we?” Potter drawls.

Draco stiffens. Harry stands in the open doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame, his stupidly muscular arms crossed over a buffalo plaid shirt—the same ridiculous buffalo plaid as his flannel jacket. 

“The gnome did it,” Draco says imperiously.

Harry remains silent. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly on one side revealing a ghost of a dimple.

“It was infesting your garland,” Draco announces, shaking the tingle out of his hand. “I de-gnomed it for you.” He tilts up his nose. “You’re welcome.”

Harry chuckles. “That’s unfortunate as I _invited_ them into the garland.”

Draco blanches. “You would, you lumberjack. Honestly, you wore a buffalo plaid _shirt_ underneath your buffalo plaid _jacket?”_

“How did you know I have a plaid jacket?” Harry asks, eyes sparkling entirely too much to be allowed for someone who has lashes long enough to braid.

Draco’s protest is pushed hastily from his mouth by his heart leaping into his throat. “I didn’t! It’s just, it’s something you’d wear, you fashion-challenged prat, and whatever, I’m returning your rogue rodent! _Again!”_ He shoves the wadded towel into Harry’s chest. 

Harry frowns at the hedgehog squirming and kicking up a fuss from inside the cotton folds. “What’s gotten into you, Prince Q?” 

A sudden jangling of bells from inside the hut distracts Harry from his pet. “Brilliant! Supper!” He grins wide and turns back into his hovel leaving Draco standing in the cold with a hedgehog in a towel.

“I don’t want this thing, _”_ Draco protests. _“Potter, come back!”_ He juggles the rodent and follows Harry into the hut. 

Draco steps over the threshold and draws up short. The magically-expanded interior looks nothing like Hagrid’s hovel of Draco’s memory. The dreary furnishings and dank colors have been replaced with blond woods and cushy armchairs. Dark wood floors are polished to a high shine and softened by colorful carpets and shag rugs. The Persians aren’t as nice as those at the Manor, of course, but the flokati in front of the fireplace is acceptable.

The interior is very nearly _exactly_ to Draco’s taste, he concedes, albeit softer and warmer in tone… except Christmas has vomited all over every viable surface.

An evergreen garland, the twin to the one framing the front door, drapes a simple mantle supporting an army of nutcrackers. The garland itself is decorated with the odd plums and small gnome figures—the _only_ gnomes, Draco hopes, but knowing Potter he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d invited the foul things into his hut. Potter’s infernal red tinsel is draped from the ceiling beams and over every window and picture frame, of which there are many. Pillows felted with jolly Santa faces and adorned with jingle-bell pompoms are piled on the couch and chairs. Even the very _air_ reeks of Christmas, all spicy cinnamon and smoky vanilla.

And in the corner stands a once-noble Nordmann Fir, resplendent in rainbow colors. Crimson branches at the wide base shift up through the spectrum to culminate at an indigo pointed tip.

Draco stares.

Harry approaches, holding a sandwich fat with cold cuts. Behind him, the butcher block kitchen island is piled with plates of sandwiches, chips, and gingerbread biscuits.

“I was just about to decorate,” Harry says happily, nodding to a pile of tangled fairy lights sitting at the foot of the disgraced rainbow tree.

“What the _bloody hell_ have you done to it?” 

“Done to what?”

“The tree, Potter, _the fucking tree!_ That Fir was not rainbow colored when you brought it home earlier—” Harry lifts a brow and that dimple ghosts his cheek. “I mean,” Draco says, ears warming, “Firs aren’t _naturally_ multicolored. Especially the ones from _Wiltshire.”_

Harry takes an evasive bite of his sandwich. A glob of mustard falls onto his shirt. “I saw a rainbow tree in a Muggle shop once,” he says through his masticated food, “and thought it was fun.” 

Draco’s eye twitches.

“I think my hedgehog likes you.” 

Draco shifts his gaze from the mustard down to the forgotten hedgehog, snoozing contentedly in his arms. 

Harry reaches out and pets the hedgehog’s twitching nose. “Kindred spirits.”

“Yes well, I don’t like him!” Draco bristles. “And I _don’t_ appreciate being disrupted as I disrobe for my bath.” 

An image of his robes in the exact buffalo plaid as Harry’s messy shirt, pops into Draco’s mind. His eye twitches again. He grits his teeth and Levitates the animal, towel and all, sending him knocking into Harry’s chest. 

The rodent startles awake and resumes his squealing and squirming. Harry holds him up to his ear, nodding pensively as he listens. “You don’t say,” he says. “That good, eh? I mean, _really_ PQ, I already _know_ he’s fit.”

Unfortunately, the noise Draco makes is not masked by the hedgehog’s squeaks. 

“Relax, Malfoy,” Harry says dismissively, as if uninvited intrusions into personal spaces are perfectly acceptable. “It’s his suppertime. He’s hungry.” Harry gestures with the sandwich. “Hey, why don’t you join me and Quill for supper? We could maybe discuss our plans for the Hogwarts Christmas trees.”

“I’m not hungry,” Draco lies, recalling the two tumblers of whisky he consumed earlier in lieu of dinner. “And if this—” he waves his hand to encompass the decorations and the tree, “—is your idea of decorations, then I must respectfully decline our tannenbaum trimming partnership.”

A little wrinkle forms between Harry’s eyebrows.

“I prefer more sedate decor,” Draco says, unsettled by the incongruity of that deepening wrinkle. He glances away and catches sight of the glowing spheres outside on the lawn. “Although, I do quite like your balls.”

Thankfully, the wrinkle disappears but _bloody hell._ Draco inwardly cringes and closes his eyes for a beat. “The glowing balls, the-the _light spheres_ or whatever, that decorate the path! Those balls. I like _those_ … balls,” he finishes lamely.

Harry bites his lip and says solemnly, “I have no problem incorporating my balls into your sedate decor.”

Heat flames Draco’s ears, and red sparks shoot out of his wand tip. With a loud pop, the sandwich in Harry’s hand transforms into a big, fat marshmallow. Harry inspects it with bemusement. 

“Ok, I’m leaving now,” Draco announces, turning away and marching to the door. 

“Tree decorating starts tomorrow morning,” Harry says, his grin evident in his voice.

“Good luck with that,” Draco shoots back over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.

The chill outside hits Draco like a hippogriff, burning his lungs. His heavy sigh drowns out the grunts of the garden gnomes making their way back to the hut through the adjacent field. Hogwarts shimmers in the distance ahead and the damned lighted _balls_ dot the lawn as if the castle had been engaged in a game of marbles.

Draco shakes the sparks from his wand and slips his way down the icy steps, setting off over the path, hunched against the cold, thankful that at least the wind has quieted. He doesn’t dare to attempt a Warming Charm; his wand is _obviously_ faulty. He will have it checked in the morning, as he will have ample time _not_ decorating Christmas trees.

One of the spheres, glowing a Slytherin green, moves to Levitate beside Draco as he walks past. It washes him with a spicy magic that tingles his fingertips and engulfs him in a deliciously warm bubble.

Snowflakes begin to fall in earnest, and the sphere travels with him all the way back to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	10. Chapter 5 1/2

Outside the window, snowflakes drift quietly in the still air.

Harry adjusts the last strand of white lights on the upper indigo tier of the Christmas tree and steps back to admire his handiwork.

The rainbow tree is unconventional, he admits. He snaps his fingers and the tree reverts back to its original evergreen. Another snap and the lights expand to form bright colorful spheres.

_I do quite like your balls._

Harry swoons, and he giggles into a pillow until his face hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:**

> Find me indulgently lurking on [tumblr](http://peachpety.tumblr.com/).


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